Coal in the Veins

Ruins of a Company Store - Nuttallburg, WV

A year ago in May, my wife and I went on an American Revolutionary tour. We visited Revolutionary war related places like Cowpens and Ninety-Six, South Carolina, Lexington, Concord, and Boston, Massachusetts, Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, and Williamsburg, Virginia. We also visited other places on our tour that were not associated with the Revolutionary War.  

One of those places was New River Gorge National Park and Preserve. We visited there for the reasons so many visit - because of the scenery, but we also visited because of my family connection to the place.

 During many summers as a child and teen the family would make a trip to visit my paternal grandparents who were living in Gallipolis, Ohio. While there we would visit aunts and uncles in Crown City, Chesapeake and Rome along Route 7. We would visit various family properties where my grandpa had rented out a house or trailer or had contracted some tobacco sharecropping. 

I haven't tracked which properties were his paternal verses his maternal family's properties and which ones he may have purchased along the way. I also am no longer certain where all the properties were.  It wasn't anything important to me as a child and my father sold most of the properties when he moved my grandmother down to live with him in the 1990s.

After grandpa's sister died and he had retired my grandparents moved to Chesapeake into her smaller house. His house in Gallipolis had sat across 1st Ave from the Ohio River, but the house in Chesapeake sat on the Ohio just a short walk from the bridge connecting to Huntington, West Virginia. From the back yard we could watch and hear the coal being loaded onto barges.

At the time I did not know my grandfather's direct connection to coal.  He was an employee of the Corp of Engineers working on the Locks and Dams along the Ohio in the region. I simply thought it was the riverboats he was interested in.  My grandmother would talk of showboats like the River Queen, the Majestic, and even the Cotton Blossom that would bring musical entertainment along the river. So it wasn't the coal I was focused on -- but I think he was.

He had worked for a short time in the coal industry.  It was a family business. He went to work in the mid-1920s with his cousin, Edward G. Blume at the Number 2 Coal Mine at Kaymoor, WV which now sits within the New River Gorge National Park. My grandpa's grandmother, Elizabeth Jane Blume Wyle, had lent Edward's father, George Morgan Blume, money as part of his capital for executing the Fayette Coal and Coke Company around 1900. 

George Blume was in the coal business because of a chance encounter his brother, Jacob, had with John Nuttall. Jacob was operating a family hotel near Keeneys creek when John Nuttall entered and asked about the source of the coal Jacob was using for his hotel. That conversation led to a partnership. Jacob's mother (my third great-grandmother), in a letter to her daughter and son-in-law described Jacob's newfound success as having "received the wine of life." Among other things, Jacob operated the Nuttalburg Company Store. (Only the foundation remains as pictured above.)

John Nuttall brought industrial coalmining to the New River Gorge - establishing the community of Nuttallburg, now a ghost town residing within and managed by the New River Gorge National Park and Preserve. He also married Jacob's sister, Martha, making the entire operation a Blume family enterprise.

When I heard the coal pouring into the riverboat barges, I heard a noise and saw an operation. When my grandpa was sharing those moments with me, he saw a part of our family's connection to the region and an industry that played an important role in family he personally knew. Through a bit of research, I can now appreciate what he saw in the moment.

Old Poems

 

A Very Old Poem

A few weeks ago I blogged about my poor relationship with poems.  I often don't understand them at the depth intended by the original writer. I attribute it to having shallower feelings than most poets. 

While true, there was a brief moment in my life when I made an attempt at writing some poems. I was alone with my thoughts often.  I had graduated college. I was living on my own — alone.  In that space, I found some time to wrestle with some thoughts (and maybe feelings) and I put them into poems — because I wanted to try to do it. Aside from school assignments, I believe I have written only three poems longer than a couple of couplets. All of them were written in that period between leaving home and getting married.  

Maybe that says something. I was more emotional. Or, I was more pensive. Or, I was more frequently alone with my thoughts. Or, I just had more time. I don't know — but I ran across them again — so I will share them here.

Here is a poem during that period that I wrote after returning from a business trip.  I was struck by the ubiquity of solitude in the midst of crowds.

Can we Learn?

Sitting in an Airport
The room's full of strangers
Don't you say a word ----
You'll stir up dangers.

There's a man on the left

A woman right of you

To the left stares ----

Ans she is staring, too.

What's this fear within us 

that keeps us stuck inside?

Is it true that ----

inside we must reside?

Reach out and be a friend

Show others that you care

Take the time to see---

Time's just too short to stare.

I'd like to say that this poem was a catalyst for opening me up to having conversations with people I did not know and may never encounter again. In a way, it might have. If nothing else, it helped resolve the silence as a universal challenge and not one to attribute to myself alone.

The second poem is a bit longer and a little whimsical. I don't recall the exact event that may have started me thinking about this one — though it still resonates like the first poem as a universal truth. Enjoy!

One Wish

It starts as in tradition

strolling at the place

where the land meets the ocean.

When there before me in the sand

I see and lantern

engraved "Rub me with your hand"

Suddenly I wonder

Could this be true?

Then my pulse pounds like thunder.

Turning to the right

and turning to the left

there is no one in sight

With this quite clear

I begin to rub the lamp

And, yes, a genie did appear!

He spoke quite succinctly.

"My name is Ozbli.

You may have one wish that I shall grant thee."

"What shall it be young lad?

Many wishes have I granted

most of which turned out sad."

"Is it great wealth you desire?

To many I have granted this.

To what do you aspire?"

Much amazed, I began to tremble.

Shaking and stalling I asked, 

"What other wishes can you assemble?"

Boldly he spoke aloud.

"A thousand requested; A thousand granted.

Of this I am quite proud."

Wishes for fame and glory, 

power and might, sexual prowess

Ah!! that's a story!

"Young man, what is it now?

Make your wish and 

instantly, I'll grant it that's a vow!"

I wasn't sure just how to act

"I want to make a wish 

that will bring only good! That's a fact."

"I ask you new friend

what wish have you granted 

that's brought only good to the end?"

For this question he had not planned.

"A thousand wishes I have granted

but good results are counted on one hand."

"A peasant asked for his mother's health.

An old man wished for peace with his children

Most, though ask for wealth."

"You ask many things

Come now, come now

What is it your desire brings?"

Stalling no more I gave my best

"Sir genie my wish is this:

Remove mankind's selfishness."

The genie gave me a long, long stare.

"A thousand wishes; a thousand granted

with not a one does this compare."

"Granting this wish would be a pleasure.

Such a miracle would indeed

make this world wonderful beyond measure."

"But try as I might this wish to grant

I takes too much to bring it about.

I'm sorry to say - I just can't.

You see my son

to grant this wish it

takes much more than one."

Then in his eyes I saw a tear

"Good luck, young lad" is all he said.

And he began to disappear.

So sorry was I to see him leave.

It can't be done!?!? It can't be done!!!?

For this fact we should all grieve.

Bloodlines, Books, and Bonds

DNA Closeness

Genealogy is an interesting pursuit. In it we chase bits of information about family members in books, census data, land transactions, birth and death certificates, tax records, military records, newspapers, and bits of other things that may have been archived in family heirlooms or in public libraries. These things tell stories of the lives of our ancestors. We reconstruct connections to siblings, children, cousins, parents, and even close friends and neighbors. Once a genealogy bug bites - the genealogical work extends from their own family networks to friends and then to complete strangers.

We do it for different reasons. Some do it because they enjoy the chase. Some do it for a sense of pride in the accomplishments of their ancestors. Some do it because they long for connections to something that feels significant. Some do it in hopes of understanding themselves better. Some do it for the opportunity to be part of a lineage or heritage society such as the Sons of the American Revolution, of Daughters of the American Revolution, Sons of Confederate Veterans, United Daughters of the Confederacy, Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War, and Daughters of Union Veterans of the Civil War, The Mayflower Society, The Jamestown Society, or even the National Society Magna Carta Dames and Barons. And some, like me, do it primarily to understand how individuals - who happen to have been traceable relatives - interacted with the world in their place in history.

My father and grandfather were members of the Sons of the American Revolution, but I have never applied. As I have traced the available records I have come to believe that I could also be eligible for Sons of both Union and Confederacy, both the Mayflower and Jamestowne societies, and the Magna Carta society. Though stepping through all the paperwork and society scrutiny to prove it may be too grueling and of little more value to me than just believing it. 

For the Mayflower, for instance, I can confidently link to a 10th great-grandfather, Digory Priest, who sailed on the Mayflower to the New World. And with reasonable confidence (lineage shown in the image) I connect to a twelfth great grandfather and grandmother, William and Mary Brewster.  

Though the Brewsters are my grandparents, I will inherit on average only 0.01% of their DNA and I might inherit 0.02% from Great Grandpa Priest. While I chase their life stories, I can lay claim to their cultural contributions to my life experiences but very little of my genetic tendencies. 

For the prestige of it, maybe I would rather focus on one of my eleventh great grandfathers - John Holles who was an Earl (1st Earl of Clare). I could just as easily look at a much less prestigious ninth great-grandfather, William Covington, who arrived in the Colonies as an indentured servant. Since, his circumstances were more humble - I might mention he only contributed 0.05% of my DNA. My eight great-grandfather, Christopher Robinson, I will brag about since he was quite successful and accomplished. He contributed 0.10% of my DNA. But since he was a slaveholder - I might also note it was ONLY 0.10%. 

I think I'll just skip over Charles Gorsuch, Jr., an 8th great-grandfather who was also a slaveowner, and move to a sixth great-grandfather, Abijah Stephens, who was a righteous Quaker - sacrificing his family farm to the patriotic cause at Valley Forge and releasing his one slave within days of the budding Nation's declaration that "All men are created equal..." 

I could look nostalgically on a fifth great-grandfather, Francis McCown, with whom I share 0.78% of his DNA (and his Y-Chromosome). He came to the frontier of Virginia as a Scotsman from Ireland to settle the west for the country's westward expansion.

I share about 1.6% of any fourth great-grandfather's DNA. What part of the life of my fourth great-grandfather, Oliver Brown, do I want to emphasize?  His heroic participation as an artillery captain in the American Revolution or his leadership in a riot on the Bowling Green in New York City? Maybe, I would rather speak of his entrepreneurial adventures in Concord where, um, he went bankrupt and used the juridical limits of the new Nation's State borders to escape and restart his life in Western Virginia? 

The genetic relationship of us to our prized ancestors diminishes quickly. My connection to William Brewster, for example, may have contributed a little over 0.01% of his DNA to me but he also may have contributed none. He has to share contribution with 8,191 other twelfth great-grandfathers.

A Magna Carta ancestor, though traceable to me by every document I uncover, is unlikely to share any genetic similarity (footnote 1). In fact, I am more likely to share measurable DNA with a stranger I pass in the grocery store who, unknown to both of us, is my fifth cousin thrice removed.

Genealogy remains fun for the thrill of the search. It continues to provide reasons to socialize with others you share interests with. It can provide additional layers to entertainment and clarity when we are able to travel to places our ancestors walked. It certainly provides opportunities to learn where history and humanity interact in the eaches - those small, individual moments - along the way. As such it can provide guidance to us as we walk in our place of history.

But, in the end, the genetics show us that we are all interconnected. Bloodlines are meaningless, books are revealing, but bonds are what we make them.

1. Unless you are a male and he is the Y-line ancestor or you are a female and she is a mitochondrial-line ancestor.

 

Bullets and Bananas

A Bullet and a Banana

Almost 30 years ago a banana was growing in the tropical regions of the Americas.  It made its way into the lunch bag of a Physicist working for the United States Air Force. The vast majority of bananas that make it into a lunch bag are eaten. But this particular banana sat on a desk patiently waiting to be consumed by someone, if not the one who brought it to work in the bag - but no one did.  And so it sat.

In the airconditioned offices there was little moisture and the banana was far from the door where fruit flies might have entered.  The banana simply waited, and waited, and waited. As it waited the dry air slowly evaporated its moisture.

The Physicist was intrigued.  How long would the banana last? He named the banana Bob and left it atop a file cabinet.  Office tomfoolery gave Bob a tombstone.  Bob, the banana, became an office topic of discussion long before artist Mauizio Cattelan taped one to a wall and sold it for $120,000.

When people get together socially, in families, in work environments, play happens.  Whether it is Puma with his landscaping pals or the Physicist and me while waiting on weapon analysis computations to finish, it happens.

Six or seven years before the banana, the Physicist was playing with the base of a 20mm projectile while standing beside a filing cabinet. He often spun it like a top, while we discussed approaches to our next project. Over time we developed various ways to spin the top.  First there was the simple one handed two finger twist.  Then came the two-handed opposing thumbs spin (my favorite). Finally, we attached a string to it and spun it like the wooden tops of his childhood.

Then came the question.  How fast is it spinning? We guessed at first, but we were not going to be satisfied with a guess.  How could we find out?  We threw out several suggestions then he asked - how would Newton have done it? I suggested dropping a drop of water on the top and measuring the maximum distance it traveled.  We derived the formula for such an experiment.

The Formula

We carefully dropped the water on top then measured the diameter of the circle the water formed on the top of the file cabinet. We took several measurements and averaged them (both of the circle and of different spins). We came up with speeds ranging over 6,000 rpms with our fingers and up to 10,000 rpms with the string technique. He didn't believe it. What error could there be that would make it err toward being too big?

I proposed a few.  There was a lip on the top of the top that could provide some lift to the water.  The top does travel so maybe it is traveling too much during the period of interaction; but it seemed like those events would be negligible since the interaction was occurring in milliseconds.

Finally, we found someone with a strobe meter.  We put a white strip of paper on one side of the top, spun it and measured it with the strobe while simultaneously applying the water method. The differences were within 400 rpms. The technique was a complete success.

The Physicist retired from the USAF around 2006 and then started working for a Defense contractor.  He put in another 20 years there.  I started some part-time work with the same company. Just before he retired again, he handed me the banana and the bullet.

Guitar Poetry - circa Early Adolescence

 

My Poetic Magnum Opus

I'm a reasonably good writer.  I'll never win a Pulitzer Prize or even publish a book that others will want to read for pleasure or great insight, but I can put ideas on paper (or e-paper) in a way that communicates, flows, and sometimes entertains. Occasionally, my words can even evoke a level of feeling! 

Because my feelings are mild and usually under subjection, my words often don't resonate deeply. So - you might imagine that poetry is well beyond my reach. I frequently fail to understand the poetry of others; and, I have discovered that failing is precisely because I am trying to understand the poetry instead of letting it evoke some sort of feeling. 

Consequently, I haven't written much poetry. I tried my hand at one when I proposed to my wife. She kept it, so she at least appreciated the attempt. Other than that, attempts have been scarce, at best. So, this old piece of poetry that I was required to write in school as a child - is of great value due to its rarity if not quality.  I don't know the exact date of writing it - but I was somewhere between 11 and 13 years of age. 

The assignment was simple. "Write a rhyming poem and illustrate it.  We will do something special with it when everyone is done." 

When we were done, we tore around the edges of the paper and charred them with a lighter.  We then glued and shellacked it to a board to make a plaque or wall hanging.  The finished product is pictured above. 

As I child, I fully believed I had failed at the assignment. I struggled just to find words to rhyme.  I wasn't particularly good at drawing. What can I even write about? I had guitar lessons this weekend - can I find things that will rhyme with guitar?  Yeah! "Tar" rhymes with it. I think I can draw a guitar. Problem solved.  Let's see:

The Guitar

I once had a guitar,

and droped (sic) it in tar.

It looked very bad,

and I got so mad.

But still that was the end of the guitar.

I enjoyed the guitar lessons at the time - but I wasn't progressing. I practiced, but I didn't seem to be improving. I now believe, as I married a musical person and raised two children who learned to play instruments well, that I have both a limit in my musical hearing and I struggle at memorization of any kind. For my musical hearing limitation, I thought in terms of a melody - not chords and a beat.  Anyway - I was entering a love/hate relationship with my guitar. That relationship shows in the poem.

How early I began my go-to loss management style!

                I lost something. 

                I felt the loss. 

                Feeling it doesn't change the situation. 

                Let's move on.

On the back of the plaque are impressions of another childhood action.  I think I was 12 when I got a pocketknife as a Christmas gift.  It had an awl as one the blades. I drilled a hole in the upper right-hand corner of the plaque with that awl.  I also stabbed the back of the board many, many times. I did it so many times and so hard that the tip of the knife blade is slightly bent to this very day. I think there was any specific rage associated with the stabbing - but it was certainly a bit of my boyhood violence preserved in wood.

I need to blog. For today, what should I log? I have this old plaque - what else do I lack? Just something to get out of this fog!

Independence, Freedom, & Liberty

Monument at Valley Forge

"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free."

***

"To the land of the free and the home of the brave."

***

"My country 'tis of Thee, sweet land of liberty - Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountain side - Let Freedom Ring!"

***

We sing these songs with a feeling of love of country and shared images. For 250 years, Americans have projected a deep belief in liberty — in our voices, in our choices, and in the stories we tell about ourselves. Sometimes our voices led us to act decisively in support of others and sometimes we chose quiet sympathy — perhaps even empathy — for their aspirations of freedom.

Our first opportunity was the French Revolution. We were deeply torn here, because they - like us were throwing off the shackles of a monarchy - a quest for liberty. However, that very monarchy had been a linchpin to our own success in achieving independence. We were torn between our ideals and political realities. 

Throughout our history we have had to make those choices. We intervened in Cuba in 1898 helping to free it from Spanish rule. A few years later we supported Panama's separation from Colombia allowing a new nation to emerge. And we fought in Western Europe defending the sovereignty (or independence) of several countries whose freedom was threatened. At other times our support for liberty has been muted or tempered by political realities, as in Africa, in India, and even in Ukraine. Not a perfect record - but our own cry for independence and quest of liberty has historically emboldened many a patriot, rebel, and martyr - such that many nations can say, like us "at least I know I'm free."

We've bled, we've died, we've sung, we've prayed, we've cried carrying with us these words: independence, freedom, and liberty as our banners of the same hope. And yet, each carries its own weight, its own promise, and its own reward.

In the Declaration of the Independence - we stated clearly so all the world would know and hear that we no longer recognized England's authority over us. We declared our God Ordained sovereignty. 

Our declaration said that all men are "endowed by their Creator ... with Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness." And so, along with independence we sought liberty. Our rights to make our own rules and decide for ourselves what is best for us. In days leading up to the American Revolution "Sons of Liberty" gathered, when not in Taverns, around Liberty Trees and Liberty Poles. Our Constitution was designed to, among other things, secure our Blessings of Liberty.

Since England disagreed with our declaration we had to continue to fight for our independence. After seven years - at the Treaty of Paris, our fight led to freedom from England's rule and the liberty to choose our manner of governing ourselves. Almost seven years after thirteen colonies in the Americas had won their independence, they used their new liberties to become codependent upon one another.

Independence comes at a price.  It requires self-discipline to set and abide by your own boundaries.  It requires enforcing those boundaries on ourselves and on those who would steal our independence.

Freedom imagines no boundaries. With freedom in our hearts, we feel a utopic hope. Yet, the freedom of one invariably conflicts with the happiness of another. And so, it is not freedom but liberty that we must pursue.

Liberty for a nation exists in that time and space where its people desire freedom and work to assure it is available in abundance for everyone. Liberty is shared with grace. 

"...one Nation under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all."

Happy Independence Day - celebrating 250 years since we declared it. 

AFTERWARD:  Most of my blogs have included many links and almost always a reference to some genealogical connection.  Today's blog didn't lend itself to that directly. However, so that I don't neglect a connection to genealogy - I will share a link to a young man (in 1776, anyway), Phineas Stephens, who seemingly was directly affected by the Declaration of Independence. Before Washington camped in his community of Valley Forge, he was awarded not only National but personal liberty. Abijah Stephens, who once restricted Phineas' freedom and later established his legal freedom was one of my great grandfathers.

Found Letters - Forgotten Fates

 

1892 Family Letter

It's been five years.  My dad died on the first of July five years ago. Following his death I uncovered in a box of his things a large manila envelope. In that envelope were scores of letters. These letters were written to family members starting as early as 1856 and a transcript of a letter from 1840. These letters were not protected and not preserved.

As I went through the letters, I had to decide what I was going to do with them. Some I have kept. Some I have shared with family. Some I have donated to a library since they involve coal mining and railroad history of West Virginia. Some of them were written on paper that crumbled upon touch.  Those I tried to read as much as I could then I simply let the fragments fall into a waste basket.  One of those was a letter from my grandfather to his mother in the 1927. My grandfather had been working in tree surgery in the northeastern U.S. and told of his opportunity to see the movie, "Ben Hur.".

The 1840 letter was written in May that year to my 4th Great-Grandfather, John Wylie, by his brother, Robert, who was living as a tenant in Hallgreen Castle in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. Robert had let communication languish between him and John - not answering a letter for 23 years. In his letter he poured out the events of fortunes and failures in their family in Europe that had occurred since they last communicated. Unfortunately, when he finally wrote and sent the letter - it arrived shortly before or after his brother died in September of the same year.

The 1856 letter and some closely following it were letters of affection written by John' grandson, Robert, to Elizabeth Blume, who he would eventually marry. They were written on very fine quality paper and have held up very well. Additionally, there were letters from Elizabeth Blume's father, Philip to his son-in-law discussing his health shortly before his death.  In this letter he describes his condition as: "I have a severe cough and pain in my left side. My bowels are greatly disordered & I am still growing weaker." and "I am very anxious to see you all before I go hence. The way I am failing so fast I sometimes think the time is near at hand and I am daily trying to be ready." Philip, born in 1793, wrote that letter in July of 1872 and died four months later. There is no record as to whether the family made the trip to from Athalia, OH to Mountain Cove, WV within those four months.

The saddest series of letters occurred between 1891 and 1893.  It begins with hope and enthusiasm by great-grandfather's brother, Cecil, as he discusses his hopeful expectations for his education at National Normal University in Lebanon, OH. 

While home in Millers, OH for a break, he sent a letter to his brother in May of 1891 about upcoming examinations and that he would be traveling back to Lebannon on the Ida Smith then returning to visit him in Kenova, WV. He then spoke distantly of a macabre event where he says, "Sunny Dillons caught the Sarron girl who was drowned last Feb. Her folks came down after her on the Brown. She was all to pieces a horrible looking sight it is supposed that she has lain in the willows until this rain floated her out."

School work was beginning to wear on him because in October of 1891, he says about how much time he will need to spend in schoolwork, "It almost discourages me, but if See Miller can stand it why can’t I?" In that same letter he says about his ambitions, "I would like to stay at home all the time but I see that is impossible. Millers is no place for me or any other boy that intends to make anything out of themself." 

In that same month he was not in school, but rather employed with his cousin as his letter to his brother he says, "...if Peck gives you a helper this winter I would like to stay with you. It would be much much nicer than this work if he will pay anything reasonable. I would not kick you need not say anything about it unless you think best. But if you should want me I would gladly except (sic). We are not getting along as fast with this work as Coleman expected we would when he took this work. I don’t think he will make much money. We will be at French Lick some time all while but so far they have been settled by Dutch and it was the same as being in Germany. Today we are with an English family but it is so crowded that I am in misery. There is 11 sleeps in the same room. A man and his wife in the same room." 

There is no evidence that my great-grandfather found any work for Cecil - so the next summer, Cecil was working on a railroad contract job outside of Charleston, WV for C. A. Saber. There he applied his education toward keeping payroll for the company as he relayed in his letter to his brother on Jul 7, 1892. This letter was also full of hope for increased pay and responsibility. It was full of interests in the unique ways of the railroad contracting business. It included glimpses of his excitement for new sights, sounds, and experiences. Cecil spoke of absorbing those experiences while seemingly devoid of prejudice when he says, "We have a crew of Old Virginia Negroes here. They are a great set. All of them call me Captain James. It makes me think of the old man who had the boat above yours last summer." 

It was a letter of hope, but it ended with an omen when he says, "Burr Sarber is sick with Typhoid Fever. He is very sick. He will have a hard time of it as he is so fleshy. I think that he will come through all right."  Cecil, himself, died of Typhoid only one month later on the 8th of August.

In a November letter (page 2) the same year to my great-grandfather, their mother and my 2nd great-grandmother, Henrietta, wrote, "Twelve weeks today since we followed poor Cecil to his resting place. A sad day it was to and I will all the rest of my life – oh one so dear to me how can I ever give him up." and closes with "take good care of yourself, Vess, and don't get sick"

Among the letters some are of love and some are of hope. Some, though, are simply the last links to a loved family member. Today we don't often have those tangible letters to hold on to and reread as I imagine my great-grandparents did from time to time. 

It is intriguing that I have letters that were last links to great-grandparents and uncles I never met. Simultaneously, they are a subset of the tangible things I have held on to remember my loved family member.